


Seven Times Jellal and Erik Almost Kissed and One Time They Actually Did

by gaysquared



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: 7 + 1, Crime Sorcière, Drinking, Kissing, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Oracion Seis - Freeform, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, mild violence, seven plus one, slight sexual themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 13:59:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10362018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaysquared/pseuds/gaysquared
Summary: Pretty much what it says on the tin.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was mostly written in tumblr as a gift but I thought I'd post it here too.

I.

The winter season is fast approaching; Crime Sorcière can only lug around so many furs to keep warm, so they’ve started making their way to the warmer parts of Fiore, day by day.

  
One day as they stop for water by a stream, Jellal begins to pass under the tree on which Erik rests, his back pressing into the white bark. Then, Meredy says something; it is supposed to be innocent, innocuous. It does not end up having this effect.

  
“Hey,” the woman says, smiling slightly and pointing up towards the branches of the tree. “Look. Wild mistletoe.”

  
Jellal freezes as he takes a chance to look up, curious. The white, almost translucent pearls of berries stare down back at him, the vines wrapped so haphazardly tight around the branches of the tree that the separate plant almost looks like a large bird’s nest.

  
“They’re standing under it,” Sorano says rather softly, and a tired-eyed Macbeth turns his head at her voice.

  
“Shit, you’re right,” he grins, and Jellal blinks. “It’s almost Christmas time, yeah? They have to kiss, right?”

  
Meredy flushes, mouth snapping closed; it seemed she’d been about to continue on about the mistletoe in a different direction than Macbeth had taken it. Still, she answers, “I guess they do, if they’re willing.”

  
Erik cracks open an eye. “Didn’t know we were such a celebratory bunch,” he mumbles, arms crossed.

  
Jellal isn’t sure what to say; Sawyer has stopped rinsing the sweat out of his headband to watch, and even Richard glances up at them.

  
“I do miss celebrating,” Meredy says softly, nostalgia fighting for attention in her eyes.

  
“They have to do it,” Macbeth states, sitting up further, body language becoming more engaged. “We don’t get to celebrate shit all year, they can do this one thing.”

  
Jellal clears his throat. “We’re right here.”

Macbeth looks up at him, an eyebrow raised. “Sorry. You have to do it.”

“I don’t have to do shit,” Erik grouses, hunching up off the tree to stand fully. 

Jellal pauses; he’s not exactly sure how a kiss of all things would increase morale, but in all honesty, at this point he’s somewhat willing to do anything to keep his troops going. Being a leader when he himself feels like he could collapse at any moment; it’s been something difficult to even attempt to figure out. 

“Do you really want us to?” he asks, because; he wants to know. He finds he cares about the answer, strangely. 

“Obviously,” Macbeth answers. 

“It is a nice tradition,” Meredy says rather shyly, looking down.   
Richard is staring now, curious.

“Kisses are a favorable display of love.”

Erik grumbles under his breath, but his body is turning, his feet shifting on the ground repeatedly like a slow progression towards Jellal’s own body. 

“I’d… enjoy it.” This comes from Sorano, a surprise, and Sawyer gives a small laugh from the background. 

Jellal turns to see Erik looking down as if in thought, and the dragon slayer muses, “I suppose I could peck even this uptight one on the lips.”  
Jellal stops his mouth from opening, even if slightly, in surprise.

“It is… only a kiss.” It comes out as almost a whisper, a curious thing; in a way, perhaps it’s a question. 

Erik looks up at him, eyes narrowing in, and it makes Jellal’s skin squirm. “Uh. Yeah.”

  
Macbeth is watching the pair with amusement. “Any time this century, fellas.”

  
Jellal shakes his head. “Okay, okay.”   
Erik is watching Jellal for cues, looking curious, his body now fully facing the other man.

  
“We could just get it over with,” his baritone rings, said almost as if this were some clandestine, whispered secret.   
Jellal nods, a curl threatening his lips; Erik’s face is more open than he’s seen in a quite a while; it’s always an interesting display. He feels his body pull forward on it’s own.

“I suppose,” he answers.

  
Erik is smiling now, subtle, white beads of fruit hanging above his head, and there’s a moment Jellal thinks he begins to lean in, but–

  
“Any day now,” Macbeth cuts in.   
Something darker glances over Erik’s features, and Jellal’s heart constricts strangely in his chest. 

“It’s silly,” he says, and Erik is sneering at Macbeth as Jellal does so. 

Erik looks back, face shifted back to flippant grimace, and he says, “Pretty sure my mom was Jewish anyways, so.”

“I’ve never celebrated anyways,” Jellal responds, body leaning back of its own accord. 

Erik turns away, walking back toward the stream. “We do have to get going.”

Their crowd of watchers stares, then disperses one by one as they seem to realize nothing of interest is going to happen. Macbeth is the last to move, eyebrows raised.   
Jellal turns idly on the spot, feeling rather stupid. Kiss Erik? Really? Doesn’t even make any sense.   
He couldn’t kiss that man.   
Could he?

II.

In all fairness, Jellal is usually the one in the group to never touch alcohol, but; he’d seen a man die this morning as they ran a dark guild out of the local town, and he feels this warrants as much drink as he pleases. The surprisingly grateful town sets them up in an inn for the night; even give them food in drink, proposes a celebration. Jellal wonders exactly what oppression they’d been facing under the dark guild’s reign; he finds he doesn’t really want to know.

  
"Anything you need,“ Crime Sorcière had been told, and Macbeth had commented on how it was nice to be appreciated for once, and Erik agreed. They all look at Jellal with surprised eyes when he knocks back the first bottle of sake. Meredy laughs; she always likes seeing new sides of him, especially if it involves him loosening up.

  
The pleasant buzz of alcohol sets in soon after; he hasn’t much tolerance built up, after all. The guild members get louder and rowdier as the night wears on, Richard the only one who had chosen not to participate. Jellal is quiet, but he can feel his careful composure slipping as he works on a second bottle of sake.

  
Meredy is laughing with Sorano, face terribly red with drunkenness; Macbeth is making fun of a bemused Sawyer, and Erik gives at least more than small grunts in response when prompted with conversation. Jellal nurses his drink, head swimming.

  
From the side, he notices how long Erik’s eyelashes look in the albeit dim light; the man’s energy is curious, as if it alone draws Jellal closer in a need for an explanation of some undefined sort. Jellal’s head is heavy; his eyes blink slowly as he sniffs, groaning as he reclines on the bench seat.

  
"Can’t believe they didn’t kiss,” Sorano slurs; it’s a confused not-so-quiet stage whisper, and Meredy is already waving her hand in response.

“You- you can’t,” she explains, shrugging like she’s made the most obvious statement in the world.

  
"Can’t with ‘em. They’re too wounded up.“ She catches Jellal’s eye, and immediately dips in front of him, apologizing. "Sorry, I didn’t mean…” she trails off, and Jellal wonders if she can even remember what she wanted to say. “You’re good,” she finishes, pointing a finger at him. He doesn’t really have anything to say to that.

  
He leans back lazily, feeling tired, and settles into the warmth he finds pressing into his back. Until he realizes it’s Erik’s arm, that is. Erik seems to have a much higher tolerance to alcohol than the rest of them; maybe adults were right when they always told you it was poison.

Sawyer has already passed out on the table, his high metabolism working against him. At least there’s a chance he could wake right back up, ready to drink again in no time. Macbeth is in a similar state, although his relaxed position may actually be one of choice. 

“That’s me you’re laying on,” Erik grumbles and Jellal tries to find the missing strength to sit up.

“Sorry,” he slurs slightly. “You feel warm." 

"Maintaining ideal body temperature will do that,” Erik quips, setting down his own bottle of sake. “I think you’ve had enough.” Erik reaches for Jellal’s bottle, which Jellal finds himself childishly pulling out of the way. 

“Hey. I’m leader. My drink. That’s rude, don’ do that.” Erik gives a small laugh, and Jellal thinks maybe from the movement he feels, the dragon slayer shakes his head as well. Jellal shifts to look at Erik again, wondering what the other man looks like when he laughs, and Jellal finds his head is resting on the man’s shoulder. 

"Why’re you so warm?“ he mumbles, skin buzzing at the contact. He hasn’t touched another person, just casually, in so long. He finds himself drawing in closer; he didn’t quite mean too, but it’s as if it happens on its own. Erik’s lips are a cracked-open fig on his tan skin, and Jellal follows the curves of his face up to the scar over his eye. 

He tries not to stare, but instead moves his eyes back to Erik’s lips, and he’s not sure that’s much better. The yellow light from the candles drifts down and Jellal blinks, slowly; he feels so sluggish. The light catches in Erik’s eyelashes again and

Jellal mumbles, barely audible, "you look like gold." 

Erik turns his head at this odd muttered phrase, only to find Jellal’s face surprisingly close to his own. Jellal can’t tell who’s breath it is he’s smelling the sake on; Erik’s been drinking plenty too. Jellal blinks up at the dark eyes in front of him, brain giving a puttering whir as it tries to interpret what’s happening.

But the more sober man clears his throat, moving away to yank Jellal’s bottle out of his hands. "Like I said,” Erik murmurs, “you’ve had enough.”

III.

Jellal is sluggish, remembering the previous night’s nightmares and tossing and turning of his consciousness under the weight of guilt, as he follows Erik’s footsteps. It’s common for Erik to walk near the front of their entourage, given his hearing, but this part of the woods is dense, and it’s Jellal who isn’t listening as a voice warns him before his foot digs in under a large root.

  
He falls, mind collapsing back to the present as his body collapses as well. He grunts; he’s fallen on his side, and brought Erik down with him; the man had turned at Meredy’s voice behind the both of them, just in time for Jellal to fall. Erik lifts his head, holding his temple, looking like he wants to yell at Jellal, but he pauses instead, staring. Trying to sit up only brings their faces, and bodies, closer.

Jellal is blinking quickly, tiredness slowing his mind, and he grunts, “What?”

“You have freckles,” Erik responds, sounding curious. “I didn’t know that.”

  
Jellal swallows, chest feeling heavy. His legs are slotted between Erik’s legs, and he feels heat rise in his throat, but Meredy is behind them, asking if they’re alright. Jellal mumbles out a reply, and awkwardly lifts himself; his elbow gives an unhappy creak, but he manages. Erik continues to stare at him as Jellal brings himself to stand; the attention crawls under Jellal’s skin and make him feel breathless.

  
Jellal holds out a casual hand, hiding the pain in his sternum, the sudden pounding of his temples and the breathlessness in his throat. Erik stares at the hand now, then back up at Jellal, and pushes himself up to standing on his own.

IV.

They’re drinking again, this time all around a fire, although Jellal has passed up the liquor this time. They’d taken some wine with them from the last village they passed through, and Jellal understands the need for a release of pressure every now and then. It’s easier, anyways, if he isn’t drinking, and can keep an eye on them. 

Meredy is pink as her hair again, although she’s a bit more lucid than the last time, a large smile stretching her lips. She passes the bottle to Macbeth, who takes a large swig, then sighs, tipping his head back. They’ve begun to tell stories for fun, and Meredy laughs and says it all makes her feel like a teenager again; Jellal looks down as he realizes he can’t relate.

  
Sorano has said something quiet that has Meredy and Macbeth guffawing; Richard yells from his tent for them to keep it down. Although he hasn’t been drinking, Jellal does feel as if he’s lost in a haze; the fire lights his Guild’s faces, all a bit thin and tired; it flushes Erik’s darker skin gold. Jellal’s knees and elbows throb with warmth from the flames, and he shifts to get more comfortable, when he hears Macbeth speaking up.

  
The man has passed the bottle to Erik, who takes a long swig, and Jellal watches the line of his throat as the dragon slayer swallows.

  
“I don’t know if that’s fair,” Meredy is saying, leaning forward, and Macbeth rolls his eyes.

  
“They didn’t do it before,” he complains, mirth hiding in the corners of his eyes. “They should do it now.” He gesticulates, hand accidentally brushing a passed-out Sawyer’s nose.

“Oops,” Macbeth mumbles. “Sorry, buddy.”

  
“What now?” Erik asks.

  
Macbeth looks up, mischievous glint returning to his features. “You two didn’t kiss before. The mistletoe. I was trying to get support to dare you to do it now.”

  
Erik grimaces. “What are we, fourteen? Where is this weird preoccupation coming from?”

  
Macbeth gives a dramatic sigh, and Jellal almost wants to laugh. “Well, excuse me, snake man, but it’s not like the rest of us are getting any. Sometimes you gotta live vicariously.”

  
“You want us to make out because you can’t make out with anybody yourself right now?” Erik asks, looking incredulous, and Meredy hides a laugh behind her hand. Erik glances at Jellal, as if looking for validation in how fucked up he finds this whole situation, but Jellal battles a confusing mix of weighing melancholy and bubbling laughter in his chest.

  
He gives a small tilt of his head in Erik’s direction, in solidarity, a show of good faith. He’s not sure if it helps. Confirming this all to be some ridiculous joke should be easy enough; but it makes his chest feel heavy, tight; he watches the curve of Erik’s jaw with fascination and feels depraved.

  
His throat throbs, and he swallows, saying, “Yeah. It’s just silly.”

V.

The spring water flows around Jellal’s thighs as he wades into the stream. It’s cool but warming under the late spring sun, this little nook of the river slightly overshadowed by the canopies of trees in the afternoon. He walks until the water covers just past his hips, and sinks down with a sigh pulled out by the cool fluid wrapping around his sore back and legs.

  
“Mind if I join?” a voice calls, and on instinct Jellal feels himself standing and turning with speed; only to see Erik, which he should have guessed from the vibrating baritone of a voice.

  
Body settling back into a feeling of relative safety, Jellal gestures to the water. He’s used to bathing at the same time as others, particularly the fellow men of the guild, this far out in the woods. Co-bathing had become a somewhat necessary practice.

  
Erik nods, and Jellal turns back around as the man begins to undress. He’s seen the man naked before, bathing before, but it feels respectful to avert his eyes. He swims forward, pushing off the ground, and soaks his body further as he hears Erik step into the water.

  
“Finally getting warmer,” Erik says, and Jellal hears him wade further into the water.

  
“Good for us, no more cold buckets,” Jellal murmurs, not really paying attention; he’s more focused on the way the water lifts him up, suspending him from gravity.

  
“I suppose,” Erik says, and Jellal startles slightly, turning when he realizes how close Erik sounds. The man stands a few feet away, waded in to his hips, arms crossed.

  
“You just gonna stand there or get clean?” Jellal asks, giving him a cool stare. He flicks a little water in Erik’s direction as he treads, pretending it was an accident. Erik doesn’t seem so convinced.

  
“Are you saying I’m dirty?” the dragon slayer asks, beginning to sink under the water.

  
Jellal almost wants to laugh; he holds the feeling right in his chest. “Well, I wouldn’t say any of us exactly smell like roses.”

  
“Maybe not you,” Erik corrects, and flicks water into Jellal’s face. “There. Getting clean.”

  
Jellal fails in holding back a grin at that, and raises an eyebrow. He breathes, then springs, quickly dunking Erik’s head under water. He struggles not to laugh as Erik comes back up, the man pretending to scowl. He shakes his dark red hair like a dog, spraying water all over.

  
“There’s a 90% chance you could hear me about to do that,” Jellal grins. “Somebody does want to get clean, hm?”

  
“Better watch your words, sir,” Erik smiles, clearing wet hair out of his face, pointing a finger at Jellal. Jellal’s intrigued by the slicked-back hair, the stretch of his arms.

  
“Or what?” Jellal asks, leaning in slightly. He feels his expression go calm, rather blank, but he says, “what are you going to do to your own Guild leader?”

  
Water drips down Erik’s cheeks off his eyelashes, and Jellal realizes that he’s outright close enough to see that. Erik breathes,steady, like he doesn’t feel an immense pressure on his chest like Jellal does; which very well might be the case. Erik cocks his head, and he’s grinning, and Jellal licks his lips, his legs tingling in the cool water.  
He wants to say something, but–  
A loud splash sounds and Sawyer appears in the water with them, floating up from a cannonball.

  
“No hogging the water,” he says, swimming past them, and Jellal stumbles back to let himself float on the stream.

VI. 

The first thing Jellal feels besides panic, as he opens his eyes, is the press of Erik’s mouth on his. It’s not a kiss; and it doesn’t really matter if it is, because Jellal is sitting up, body moving on its own. Erik yells out in pain, having just been head-butted, but Jellal is busy coughing up water in a way that makes his chest ache so badly he thinks it might kill him.

  
Meredy is rushing to his side as a wave of nausea sends his head bending down towards his knees, and he swallows, trying to right himself, trying to figure out what’s going on.

  
“Thank the Maker,” Meredy says, kneeling by Jellal’s side, arm wrapping around his cold, uncovered torso to hold him up. “He was at that for almost a minute before you came to.”

  
Jellal blinks, coughing again; every breath hurts deep inside and sends an overpowering ache wrapping around his torso, all seeming to wrap around where agony shines bright in the center of his chest. He tries to move his fingers, toes; both are numb but they twitch. He looks over at Erik, taking a moment to understand what Meredy had meant, although he realizes when he sees how Erik huffs his breath in and out like he’s just been through battle.

  
Did he fall asleep while bathing? He can’t really remember, but he’s sitting here now, so something happened. Erik stands, still gasping for breath, just like Jellal; his shirt is soaked with sweat.

  
“He’s fine,” Erik says, dark, and his eyes are intense when they reach Jellal’s face. Erik gives a grimace, and begins to walk away.

  
Meredy holds Jellal up but he collapses back on the grass anyway, breath just starting to come back to him. He stares up at the picturesque blue sky, and hopes it will swallow him whole.

VII. 

Jellal exits his tent in the early morning; he’s been reclusive as of late, sneaking about, avoiding contact with the others. He brushes his hands on his pants, his chest bare except for the bandages around his still-bruised ribs. The chill of the morning echoes in his bones, and he repeats the echo back in the bend of his body as he steps lightly away from their sleeping area.

  
“Going somewhere?”

  
Jellal turns, eyes moving faster than his body, and he should have figured. Erik leans against a tree, supposedly nonchalant; he watches Jellal steadily.

  
“What do you want?” Jellal asks, hearing bite in his own voice. He breathes into the anger that blooms naturally in his chest.   
Erik raises a brow.

“Just curious. You’ve been a little standoffish as of late. Don’t think we haven’t noticed.”

  
Jellal takes a step toward the man, arms heavy with his balled fists, and he asks, “Why do you care?”

  
“Was just wondering,” Erik shrugs. “Not that Meredy hasn’t been talking my damn ears off. She doesn’t even have the decency to worry a little quieter when she isn’t talking.”

  
Jellal feels the muscles in his face twitch, and he says, “how awful for you.”

  
“Something like that.”  
Heart beating fast, Jellal wills himself to turn away, and he shakes his head. He sets his eyes straight ahead in the forest, biting the inside of his cheek, and begins to walk away.

  
“Going to drown yourself again?” Erik says, less like a question and more of a jab, and Jellal’s body stills.

  
He’s turning back around before he knows what he’s doing, muscles moving on their own, and as he stalks forward Erik let’s out a “ _What_?”

  
The end of the word is cut off as Jellal’s fist collides with the man’s cheek; Jellal watches as if in slow motion, curious at his own actions, and Erik’s spits blood, hunkered over slightly. The man looks up at him, dark, with his one eye, and this is all the warning Jellal has before he’s being barreled over.

  
He elbows a collarbone, missing Erik’s throat, but his knee sinks deep into the flesh above Erik’s hip. Erik grunts deep, hands fighting to get at Jellal’s face, and Jellal feels himself growl, angry with an intense passion that leads him to clench down on the next wrist that comes near his face with his teeth.

  
Erik yells, pushes a palm into Jellal’s face with force, and a knee knocks the air out of Jellal’s stomach. In a moment Erik is lying heavy over his legs, a forearm pressed tightly to Jellal’s throat, and Jellal gags on his own breath, squirming.   
Erik’s face is a mask of rage and something like desperation. Pain and frustration pass between his brows and around his mouth, and his arm digs tighter into Jellal’s throat. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Erik yells, face red with anger, and Jellal struggles to breathe, sucking in musk of Erik’s skin at the close contact.

His heart beats wildly, like it will spring from his chest, and he blinks up at wine-dark eyes, lungs trying to fill. Erik searches his face, looking for answers. Blood drips from his lip; Jellal can feel his own nose bleeding from when Erik struck his face.

  
Erik shifts, legs falling around Jellal’s, his arm slacking slightly as well; he can’t keep up the hold when he’s just trying to figure out what the hell is happening.

  
“I don’t–” he starts, then stills.

  
Jellal feels his eyes start to water, chest giving a painful spasm. He’s hard under Erik’s thigh. He watches the shock wash in some sublime, grotesque spread over Erik’s face. The man simply stares at him. Jellal knows he felt it.

  
“All this time,” Erik says softly, eyes narrow in disbelief, “you’ve been– fucking–”

  
He sits up, and Jellal sucks in a deep breath, coughing as his own hand flies up to nurse his throat. He crawls out from under Erik’s legs, disgust clawing at his stomach.

  
“You’ve wanted me?” Erik says, incredulity playing in his wide eyes. He looks down, face dark. “I thought–”

Pain crosses his face. “Fuck!” he cries, striking the dark, damp earth with his fist.

  
Jellal watches silently, catching his breath. Slowly, he stands. Everything will hurt more, later, he knows; once the adrenaline has worn off. He looks down at Erik, his mind twisting in a confused dance on itself, so he turns away. He begins to walk, and he can hear Erik stand, call after him.

  
“Jellal!”

  
“Fuck off!” he yells, and coughs, clutching his side. His feet carry him forward.

VIII.

The sweat clings to Jellal’s brow, his chest aching as his breath slows, the adrenaline of battle still thrumming in his veins. His steps are light as he makes his way to Crime Sorciere’s rendezvous point, blood thrumming in his legs, when he steps into a clearing to see Erik resting against a tree, eye closed as he catches his breath.

  
“Our glorious leader returns to us?” Erik heaves out, managing a grin as he opens his eye.

Jellal doesn’t bother wondering how Erik knew for certain it was him. He doesn’t have the energy or time. He steps forward, cautious, curious, his feet stilling on the mossy forest floor. He studies Erik’s face, and the man raises an eyebrow.

  
“You get hit on the head or somethin’?” Erik asks, breathing slowly returning to normal. “Meredy’s gonna bitch if you’re late, you know.”

  
Sweat drips down the dirtied bronze of Erik’s temple, and the wine-dark eyes go curious. Jellal walks forward again, heels pressing hard into the mud, and Erik laughs.

  
“What, you gonna punch me again?” he says.

  
Jellal’s almost in his space now, a couple feet away, and Erik seems to grow confused.

“Seriously, what–?”

  
He presses his lips to Erik’s insistently, holding back the force that he can, although it still ends up a hard push as his body propels him forward. He’s stuck in Erik’s space now, bodies close, but he lets that thought go when the other man’s lips move around his.

  
His lungs whine in the thin air, heart still beating fast, but he is busy, enveloped in the soft twist of a kiss. He breathes into it, Erik’s hands coming up to grip his face hard, certain; Jellal lets him; ops to push into his space deeper. He tangles fingers in burgundy hair and traces the paths of dripped-sweat down Erik’s neck with a mindless touch.

  
The awkward twist of his nose on Erik’s face, their clashed teeth; both have long disappeared into the long drag of hungry lips trying to speak. Jellal presses into Erik’s heat, imagines inhaling it through his pores as if it were a life force, but he takes Erik’s open mouth instead. Erik grunts against his lips, breathes shaky, and Jellal is stepping back with a gasp, a wrenching motion on his own body.

  
Erik simply stares at him, rather dumbstruck. Jellal glances up at him, curious to see Erik’s eyelashes and at the same time remember the tickle of them on his own face moments before. Something bright and uncontrollable flairs in his chest and he knows he will never be able to put it out.

  
“Good work out their today,” he huffs, clearing his hair out of his face. He levels Erik with his eyes. “You fought well. Didn’t die and all.”

  
He pushes past Erik and forward, because Meredy really will kill him, and; he knows, eventually, even if it takes time’s indecisive touch, Erik will follow after him. A grin envelopes his face and burns down into his chest as the leaves crunch underfoot.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments keep me going <3


End file.
